A Different Kind of Forever(23)

“Why don’t you call your sister and ask if she minds me coming with you. And ask her if she has a three-foot level or a plumb line. We’ll need those. But if she doesn’t have them, I do.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” He followed her through the French doors into a cream-walled dining room. Wood gleamed and two watercolor landscapes hung on one wall. She stepped into the kitchen and handed him a cordless phone.

“Here. I’ll wash my face and change real quick, okay?”

“Yeah.” He watched her walk down the hall. It felt very quiet in her house, and he looked into a comfortable-looking living room, furnished in dark wood and rich browns and reds, with a brick fireplace, good art on the walls, and lots of plants. He dialed the phone.

Michael’s sisters were all sitting in Angela Bellini’s large, gleaming kitchen. Like Michael, they had their father’s small and graceful frame and their mother’s dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Unlike Michael, they also had her quick temper. Marie, the oldest at 43, was an ICU nurse and was used to averting any pending disasters. She was trying not to argue with Angela over plans for the next weekend. Angela had dug in her heels, so when the phone rang, and Angela answered hello, her voice was tight with anger.

“You’ve already started, haven’t you?” Michael asked accusingly. “I bet you haven’t even opened up a paint can, and you’re fighting about something, right?”

“Michael? No, we’re fine. Marie was just being the older sister. But you’re right, we haven’t started painting yet. We were waiting for you. We couldn’t do a thing without you.”

“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it,” Michael laughed. “The three of you will crowd me out in twenty minutes, just like you always do. But I want you to wait. I’m serious. I’m bringing somebody who knows about painting. She says it’s easy and you need a three-foot level or a plumb line. Have you got those things?”

“She? Who’s she?”

“Ang, concentrate. Ask Neil. A level or a plumb line.”

Angela covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “He’s bringing somebody. A woman,” she whispered to her sisters. She walked over to the open sliding glass doors and shouted outside. “Neil, have we got a level or a plumb line?”

“Not here,” came an answer, and she spoke back into the phone. “No, we haven’t got those things. Who is she, Mike? Anyone we know?”

“She’s a professional. Well, kind of. We’ll bring the stuff ourselves, in about half an hour. Wait for us.”

Angela hung up the phone and turned back to Marie. “Marie, did you hear me? He’s bringing somebody.”

“I heard you,” Marie said calmly. She was reading a decorating magazine, slowly turning pages.

“It’s just after eleven. Have you ever known Michael to even be awake at this hour, the day after a concert? He was probably up until five in the morning. You know what he’s like.”

“He’s awake?” Denise narrowed her eyes. She was holding Molly, Angela’s little girl. “What woman?”

“He says she knows how to paint.” Angela said skeptically.

“Well, now, why would he lie about something like that?” Marie said mildly. She was reading the magazine. “Ang, this says equal parts paint and glaze. What were you saying about water?”

“I saw it on the H&G Network,” Angela said. “But about this woman. What about the one from last night?”

Marie looked up from reading. “Her? Well, she seemed nice, but she was my age, Angie.”

Denise set Molly down on the floor and leaned in toward her sisters. “I don’t know how old she was, but there was something going on there. We’re talking real heat. I stepped between them, and it was like walking into an oven.”

Angela shrugged as Marie’s two sons came in from outside and headed for the refrigerator. “Michael didn’t say anything about how old she was,” she said.

“How old who is?” asked Steve Tishman, Marie’s husband. He had followed his sons into the house, and was helping pour soda for the boys. He gave his wife a quick look. “Who are you talking about?”

Marie sighed. “Michael is bringing someone over. Angie thinks it might be the woman we met last night, except that she’s probably our age.”

Steve shrugged. “Michael wouldn’t care about that. Age, I mean. That stuff isn’t important to him.”